


Five Hours, Eleven Minutes

by claro



Series: ...time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: a wee bit angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 05:29:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: Set just after the events of The Final Problem. Greg and Mycroft broke up two years ago, but when Sherlock asks Greg to make sure Mycroft is looked after, Greg isn't prepared for the sound of Mycroft's voice.





	Five Hours, Eleven Minutes

Greg Lestrade ended the call before the other person had finished speaking, and thrust it into the pocket of his coat. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to compose himself, hating the way his heart was beating faster, and telling himself that the relief he was feeling was just that the phone call was over and he never had to speak to the other man again.

Because the only other cause of the way he was feeling was too difficult to even consider. But he couldn't ignore the effect that voice had on him, even after everything that happened, and all the time that passed.

He hadn't even needed to speak to the other man at all, he could have just passed on the confirmation from his officers, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't trust the other police officers and so Greg needed to hear it from the other person. He waited until his officer on the scene passed the phone over to the man in question.

'You okay?'

'Fine,' he sounded exhausted.

Confirmation of the other person's safety obtained Greg made to end the call, but he wasn't fast enough and heard the beginnings of his name before he managed to press the button.

'Gregor-'

He sighed and turned to head back to the ambulances where Sherlock was with John, watching as their sister was led away by two police officers. Well, he steeled himself, best to it over wiith.

'I just spoke to your brother.'

Both men turned to look at him, and he could clearly see the interest and concern in John's face. No doubt they would have a chat about that at some point. 

'How is he?' Sherlock asked.

'He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. She didn’t hurt him; she just locked him in her old cell.'

'What goes around comes around.' John's response was predictable and any other time would be welcome support, but Greg wasn't in the mood to get into another rant of the failings of the man in question. He could see John gearing up for more, clearly thinking he was being supportive so Greg started to walk away.

'Yeah. Give me a moment, boys.'

Sherlock's voice followed him, very quietly, which was how Greg knew he was really worried.

'Oh, um. Mycroft – make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.'

Greg was one of the few people in the world who didn't need to be told that. But what Sherlock was asking was...well it was something he didn't think he would be able to do. That phone call almost broke him. Those three words were the grand total of everything they had said to each other for two years. Sherlock knew that, he knew everything. So he knew what he was asking was....Greg nodded.

'Yeah, I’ll take care of it.'

And that's what he did. He gave endless instructions to his officers, had Donovan liaise with Mycroft's security people. He sent his best officers to take statements and had all reports on the other man sent directly to him. He made sure the other man had been to hospital and was being taken care of. That's what he promised. 

That was all he had promised.

He never saw him face to face and it would be four months before he would hear his voice again.

 

 

As divorces went it had been easier than his first one. There had been no shouting, no crockery thrown, no tears. No, Mycroft had handled it with cold ruthlessness, refusing to engage in discussion or arguments. Instead he did something he hadn't done to Greg in years, he shut him out, treating him the same way he treated everyone else around him.

The last fight had been the end, and Greg had know the second it happened that that was it. It was over. He'd been the only one arguing with Mycroft adopting his usual calm demeanor, letting Greg get everything off his chest. And suddenly that was too much for Greg, at least his ex wife had shouted back, she hadn't just sat there taking everything Greg verbally threw at her. Once Greg had appreciated that aspect of Mycroft, but right in that moment he wanted a reaction. He wanted to get a rise out of the other man and so he'd blurted out the one thing he couldn't take back.

'We should just get divorced now then!'

But Mycroft didn't flinch, almost as if he had been expecting that statement. He blinked several times at Greg who was standing in the middle of the kitchen, slightly breathless, and then he nodded just once and stood up, leaving the room without another word. A moment later Greg heard the front door close and he knew, he knew, that it was over for good.

Mycroft went to ground and not even Sherlock knew where he was. His phone number no longer worked, emails bounced back undelivered, his office was unused and his staff remained mute on the issue. No one in the world could disappear quite like Mycroft Holmes could.

Greg felt sick and frightened. He needed the other man to come home so he could tell him how sorry he was, that he didn't mean it, he would never mean it. He wanted to fix everything, to talk about it. He wasn't sleeping and couldn't focus on anything other than his awol husband.

Four days later his office door opened and he looked up hopefully just like he had every time since Mycroft walked out of their house. But it wasn't his husband, it was a dark suited woman with a closed expression and a briefcase.

'Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?'

'Lestrade-Holmes.' Greg corrected automatically before he could stop himself. He didn't even know if that was still going to be true anymore.

She didn't acknowledge that Greg had spoken and instead opened her briefcase and removed an envelope.

'ID please. And then I'll need you to sign for this.'

Greg fished out his driving licence and passed it over. Apparently satisfied the woman offered him a form and he signed his name with a shaky hand.

Then she passed him the heavy envelope and left without another word.

She was clearly one of Mycroft's minions, no one else could pull of haughty quite as well as one of his staff. His stomach rolled as he looked at the envelope, suddenly feeling cold. There was a sheaf of expensive paper and Greg knew without having to look at it. 

It was a divorce petition.

#

He'd walked out of the yard without seeing anything and managed to make his way to Baker Street, all the time calling Mycroft's number, his office, Anthea, anyone he could think of.

'Anthea please,' he'd pleaded to her voicemail when she didn't pick up, 'Please Anthea, tell him to call me. Tell him I didn't mean it. I want him to come home. Don't let him do this!'

He was crying openly when Mrs Hudson opened the door to let him and her frantic questions drew the attention of John who came out of the flat upstairs and looked down to see what was happening. He took one look at Greg and practically hauled him up the stairs.

In the hours that followed Greg cried and shouted and John tried to contact Mycroft himself, then Shouted at Sherlock who sat and watched the whole exchange in silence.

'It's a misunderstanding. You'll sort it out when he comes back.' John kept saying.

Greg shook his head, 'He's not going to come back.'

'Of course he is. It's just another one of his dramatic strops, you know what he's like. Right, Sherlock?'

But the detective shook his head, 'Lestrade is correct. His marriage is over.'

'Sherlock!' John shouted, but Sherlock didn't look concerned.

'You should sign the papers. Mycroft is nothing if not fair and he will ensure that you get a decent settlement.'

And the thing was, Greg knew it too. So that's what he did.

And he never saw or spoke to Mycroft again.

He'd found a flat that he could just about afford and moved out of the house he'd shared with Mycroft. He left the keys with Sherlock to pass on when Mycroft eventually resurfaced and then he'd tried to get on with his life. Tried to ignore the stabbing pain every time he thought of Mycroft, or someone mentioned his name. Tried to deal with the fact that Mycroft had been able to walk away so easily without a discussion about it. Tried to sleep without the other man beside him.

Time passed and then he found himself holding a phone as Mycroft told him he was fine.

#

It was going to happen eventually. He'd known that from the start. Eventually, despite their best efforts, he and Mycroft would eventually come face to face, either by accident or design. He'd always expected it to be at a crime scene or Baker Street, or at a court hearing. But it was none of those things he was prepared for. Instead he was completely unprepared for it and couldn't have stopped it if he tried.

He stepped out of a cafe in Covent Garden and narrowly missed knocking over a man who was passing. He automatically lifted a hand and started to apologise, but as he lifted his head he stopped and just stared.

Mycroft.

Greg swallowed, wanting to turn and walk away, but instead he just stared, his heart hammering in his chest, an unfamiliar cold feeling creeping over him. Mycroft looked shocked, but only Greg would be able to tell that from his expression. The politician inclined his head slightly, dropped his gaze and made to step around Greg as if he was a stranger.

Without thinking Greg reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping in his tracks. Mycroft did not look around.

'You would be wise to let go.'

'Myc...' he choked out, still holding onto Mycroft, knowing that if he let go then he would never get another chance.

Mycroft turned around and glared at Greg, 'Don't make a scene.'

'That's all you're going to say to me?'

'What else is there?' the politician asked with an ugly twist to his mouth. He had never looked at Greg like that and Greg felt his heart shatter.

He let go of Mycroft's wrist but held his gaze, taking in all the details of Mycroft's face. The face that he had missed more than he wanted to admit to himself. Mycroft was thinner than he had ever seen him before, he'd lost more hair and was wearing it shorter than he used to. It suited him. His suit as always was immaculate and more than one person passing cast him an appreciative glance. But Mycroft didn't notice. He never noticed. Once that made Greg smile and tease him, but now the presence of other people was just annoying Greg. He wanted Mycroft alone so he could talk to him. Perhaps...perhaps convince him.

Just one more chance.

'How have you been?' he managed.

'Are you doing small talk now?'

Greg sighed, 'Don't do that.'

'Do what?'

'Do that.' He was close enough to the other man to see every shift in his expression, every emotion contained in the other man's eyes. Those eyes that were wary now, waiting for the moment that Mycroft could walk away from him again. But Greg couldn't let him do that, not again, 'Please.'

Mycroft huffed out a sigh of frustration, but waited for Greg to speak again.

'Mycroft,' he said, not caring that he sounded desperate or that he could barely get the words out, 'I just....I...Myc...'

'I'm very busy Detective Inspector.'

The words hit Greg like a slap in the face, but they were enough to shock Greg into coherence. This was it. This was his last, his very last chance. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of something and if didn't take hold now then he would never ever come back.

'I didn't mean it.'

The words fell between then, soft and lonely and he watched as Mycroft paused, pain burning in those storm coloured eyes.

'I didn't mean it, Myc.' he repeated, slightly stronger now, knowing that he had to keep going now, 'I was angry and I said it, but I didn't mean it. I never...I never...'

The silence that fell between then seemed endless, but Mycroft didn't turn away, instead he seemed to be working through his thoughts in that same calm and controlled way that he always did.

'You signed the papers,' he said eventually, but there was no sneer in his voice now as he spoke.

'I didn't want to.'

Mycroft nodded. They both knew that Greg had no real choice. Which had obviously been Mycroft's intention when he sent them.

Another long pause and then, holding Greg's gaze Mycroft spoke again.

'You're still wearing your wedding ring.'

Greg swallowed, suddenly feeling foolish. He'd been teased by some and called pathetic by others for that very fact. Sherlock had made several cruel comments about sentiment that had struck far too close to the bone.

'Yeah.'

Another anguished pause and Mycroft looked as if he was about to break.

'Me too.'

Greg couldn't help it, he let his gaze drop to the hand that was carrying Mycroft's briefcase.

'A fact that had provided endless amusement to my brother, as you can imagine.'

'He never said.'

'Why would he?'

Well, the fact that Greg had spent months at their flat crying like a child and pleading for any help Sherlock could give him to get in touch with Mycroft again would be a start. But then...he sighed again, it had been a kindness really. If he'd known then he would have clung to that as proof that Mycroft would come back. In Sherlock's own way he'd been trying to help.

And this was it, this right here was the moment. 

'Can...can we talk?'

And at once Mycroft's expression shut down again, the little traces of emotion that had been there gone again.

'I'm afraid I'm on my way to a meeting and I can't-'

Greg held up a hand to silence him. He couldn't face listening to Mycroft's excuses. But Mycroft was not one to let himself be silenced.

'Perhaps...this evening?' 

Hardly daring to breathe Greg stared at the man who had once been his husband, a roaring in his ears. He must have stared for a long time because Mycroft said his name.

'Gregory?' he said it like he hadn't said it in a long time, as if it was unfamiliar to him.

Greg nodded, 'Yes,' he whispered.

And there it was, the faintest trace of a smile and another nod, 'Then I shall see you at 8pm. But now...now I really must go.' 

Mycroft turned away before Greg had a chance to call after him, 'I don't know your new number!'

Mycroft glanced back at him, 'But you know where I live.'

This time when he turned away Greg let him go and watched as he made his way through the crowds who parted before him. And then he smiled. Mycroft was still living in their house. Still wearing his wedding ring.

Greg couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face as he turned in the opposite direction. 

It had been two years and now there would only be a few hours until he could say...

...say what? Panic gripped Greg and he stopped walking, causing other pedestrians to mutter as they stepped around him.

Just as soon as the panic came it went again and Greg started moving with more determination. It didn't matter. He'd work it out. He glanced at his watch. He had five hours and eleven minutes to come up with the right words to convince the love of his life to give him another chance.

In five hours and eleven minutes he was going to get his husband back.

For the first time since Mycroft walked out, Greg smiled.


End file.
